


An Unspeakable Name

by QuickYoke



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F, domesticity is my ultimate weakness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Natalie" lives with Angie and Peggy for three weeks, and it's all disgustingly domestic. Based on Maggiemerc's "I Walk A Little Faster."</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unspeakable Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maggiemerc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggiemerc/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I Walk a Little Faster](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3258113) by [maggiemerc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggiemerc/pseuds/maggiemerc). 



It took over three weeks for Natalie to tell them her real name. Coincidentally that was also the entire duration of her stay.

Angela Carter’s villa certainly wasn’t the most glamorous place she’d ever been. In fact it was quite homey. But perhaps that was only due to the people who inhabited it. After all, she had never had cause to use that sort of adjective before.

“Is Natalie your real name?”

Natalie peered over the top of her book. Well, Angie’s book, really. She had just picked it up out of boredom, “Why?” she asked, suspicious.

She didn’t have to look over her shoulder to know that Peggy – who was cleaning her Walther PPK on the coffee table behind her – was hanging on their every word. The woman had a gaze like a knife. Natalie could feel it at twenty paces like a physical thing.

“Because,” Angie drawled as she opened the oven and pulled out a tin, her hands sheathed in pink mittens, “I’m baking you a birthday cake!”

She plopped the tin down on the _c_ _arrara_ marble countertop, then busied herself with stabbing the cake with a toothpick to see if it was done – all the while looking very pleased with herself.

Natalie frowned, puzzled, “It’s not my birthday.”

“Yes, well,” Angie bustled around the kitchen, pulling out bowls and whisks and other ingredients, “since you refused to tell me your birthday, I’ve arbitrarily chosen a date. And that date is today.”

From the other room Peggy snorted. Both Angie and Natalie turned to look at her, and she said to Natalie, completely deadpan, “Happy Birthday.”

Angie glared, but continued mixing ingredients for frosting, “Anyway. I need to know your name. For the lettering.”

“Just ‘Natalie’ is fine,” she replied, turning her attention back to _Ulysses_.

As it turned out the cake was pretty terrible. Angie wasn’t a bad cook, so to speak, but she wouldn’t be winning any master chef prizes anytime soon. The words ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY NATALIE’ looped in a red frosting scrawl across dark chocolate icing.

They cut into it after dinner, which was also mediocre. Peggy took a bite and her face froze.

“It’s –” she managed to swallow without grimacing, “-wonderful.”

The look Angie gave her across the table should have made Peggy two inches shorter, “Don’t even get me started on _your_ cooking, English.”

Natalie ignored them, and ate every bite.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day Angie fell ill. Peggy followed not long after. Soon they were both groaning in Angie’s ensuite bathroom, heaving and emptying their stomachs.

“This is because of your foul cake,” Peggy wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Angie tried to kick her from where she lay cradling the toilet, but was too weak to reach.

That’s where Natalie found them, one on either side of the toilet, slumped and sweating on the tile floors.

“See? Natalie’s fine,” Angie pointed with a pale trembling hand, “It can’t be my cake.”

“My body is design to resist most debilitating poisons and foodstuffs,” Natalie said from the doorway, “It probably was your cake.”

Peggy managed to look smug and triumphant even when half dead. It quickly faded when Natalie padded over to help her up off the floor.

“What are you doing?” she snapped, eyes dark and sharp and untrusting.

“Taking you both back to bed,” Natalie replied, unruffled.

“Why you always gotta be so leery, Peg?” Angie mumbled, chin resting on the toilet-seat.

Peggy bristled as best she could while choking back another wave of bile, “By definition, to be leery is to being wary due to realistic circumstances.”

“Fine,” Natalie shrugged and moved over to help Angie up instead, “You can stay there.”

Lips pursed, Peggy did not respond.

Angie swayed on her feet, gripping Natalie’s arm tight as she was led back to her bed.

Of the three of them, apparently Natalie was the only one with any real kitchen sense. She wandered off and made them a simple meal they could keep down, serving them separately. Peggy she brought a pillow with her meal. She ignored the curl of Peggy’s lip when she leaned over to help prop the pillow between the wall and Peggy’s back.

As she was leaving, however, she heard a faint, “Thank you,” from the bathroom floor.

 

* * *

 

 

By the next day Peggy had recovered, but Angie remained crook. For most of the morning and that afternoon Peggy and Natalie avoided one another, all the while actually keeping precise tabs on where the other one was in the house at all times. Until finally Peggy broke the _guerre froide_.

“Come with me,” Peggy said, standing over where Natalie sprawled on the living room couch.

Natalie did follow, but not without a sidelong glance that would have had most people fleeing for cover.

They went out back to the sprawling villa grounds, far from any prying eyes, but with the main house still within sprinting distance. Peggy unholstered her gun, and Natalie tensed. Giving her an arch look, Peggy reached behind her and produced two sets of protective, sound-cancelling earmuffs. And that’s when Natalie realised.

Peggy had erected her own little gun range in Angie’s backyard.

She wondered if Angie knew about it.

Probably not.

They stood at twenty-five metres and took turns shooting at paper targets Peggy hung up on the washing line. While inspecting Peggy’s grouping, Natalie nodded, “Not bad.”

Peggy snorted and nudged Natalie with her shoulder.

 

* * *

 

 

A day later and Angie was back on her feet. Two weeks later and Angie was finished shooting her movie. The official premiere wouldn’t be for ages yet, but she wanted celebrations sooner.

“Dinner!” Angie announced to Peggy and Natalie the afternoon they’d wrapped up filming, “I’ve already made reservations. Dress nicely.”

Peggy scowled at the notion. Then again, Peggy scowled at any notion that involved Angie venturing into crowded public spaces where she was at greater risk of bodily injury. She never could say ‘no’ to Angie though. Especially not when she was so cheery.

Later that evening Natalie emerged from her room to find Peggy and Angie dressed to the nines, and already waiting to leave in the atrium.

Peggy glanced over, then did a double take, “No. Absolutely not.”

Natalie gave her a confused look, “Excuse me?”

Peggy pointed to Natalie’s slinky black dress, with a slit running up one thigh and a plunging risqué neckline, “You are _not_ wearing that in public. Go change into something more appropriate.”

Natalie gave Angie an imploring incredulous look, but Angie just crossed her arms and said, “Listen to your-” she broke off, coughed, then finished lamely, “-Peggy.”

With a huff Natalie stormed off back into her room to change into something more demure.

Meanwhile Peggy arched an eyebrow, “ _Your Peggy?_ ” she repeated with a small smile.

“Not a single word,” Angie growled, cheeks pink.

 

* * *

 

 

Less than a week later, Angie was attacked.

Or, at least, that’s what Natalie thought was happening.

It was the dead of night, and the sky was a moonless inky black. Natalie was normally a light sleeper – except for those rare times when the nightmares struck – and tonight was no different. When she was awoken by a cry, she shot out of bed, ran down the hallway, kicked down the master suite’s doors, handgun drawn, and –

That was definitely not Angie being attacked.

That was also an image Natalie could have definitely lived without.

Lowering her weapon, Natalie gave the two women – who were rooted to the spot in bed, eyes wide – an apologetic, nonchalant shrug, “Carry on.”

The door to the master suite couldn’t fully shut when she left, thanks to her foot busting clean through the lock. Still, Natalie closed it behind her as best she could, and made her way to the living room.

She figured she might as well play piano for a few hours. Sleep certainly wasn’t an option tonight.

 

* * *

 

 

It came as a genuine shock when Natalie realised she didn’t actually want to leave Angela Carter’s homey Tuscan villa. But at three weeks – a little longer than that, truth be told – she had already overstayed her welcome.

Also Yelena Belova would be returning the next day. Natalie had no intention of engaging Yelena in a scuffle. Not yet, anyway.

Angie demanded they at least have a farewell supper before she left, which Natalie ended up cooking. Angie had tried, but eventually Peggy dragged her away to sit at the barstools and watch. She still insisted on helping chop vegetables, which Natalie was more than happy to oblige. For all that Angie was a mediocre chef, her skills with a knife and cutting board were admirable.

After dinner Angie drew Natalie in for a hug at the door. Stiff as a board, Natalie endured it, all the while wishing she didn’t like it so much. On the other hand Peggy just gave her a curt nod and a card with her personal contact details.

“In case you ever want to switch sides.”

If that wasn’t a glowing confession of fondness, then Natalie didn’t know what was.

As she walked away, she paused and said over her shoulder, “Natasha Romanoff.”

Angie cocked her head, “What’s that, hun?”

“My name.”

And then she was gone.


End file.
